


When The Music's Gone

by dalektabledesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Horrible depression, I am so sorry for the feels you may have, Other, Really very sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalektabledesires/pseuds/dalektabledesires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not nightmares. Nightmares were what happened after Afghanistan. These are night terrors, and they are so much worse than John Watson could have ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic to post, so I very much hope it is okay. Comments are welcome. It is still rough, has not necessarily been beta'd, so please let me know if you find any gross mistakes or errors. Hope you like it (as much as possible with this). I promise I'll post a happy fic to make up for this.

_“You machine.”_

_“Sod this.”_

_“You stay here, if you want, on your own.”_ _****_

_**“Alone protects me.”** _

_**“Goodbye John.”** _

John wakes, gasping, sitting up sharply. The sheets stick to his skin, thick, confining, drenched in his sweat. They cling to him, like a newborn to its mother, but there is no affection in the cotton garments. John collapses back into the bed. Faint morning light slides through the drapes, slinking over the furniture, touching his toes (which have managed to kick their way free of the sheets), as if to banish the horrible clutch of the nightmare. No, not nightmare. Nightmares were what he had when he returned from Afghanistan; emotions tangled in with the feel and press of the hot desert sun, the gritty desert sand, the pulse of fresh blood. Nightmares were nothing compared to these; these were night terrors. More frightening than any dream about a bullet round licking through his shoulder or watching a comrade’s body suddenly jerk and collapse. They left him feeling weak, helpless, defenseless. They took his breath away. And they were increasing, both in intensity and in frequency. John groaned as he lifted his head to check the time. 5:45 a.m. God. Almost five hours. He had almost made it five hours before the terror began. Five hours of sleep, if it could be called that, and yet it was the most sleep he had had since Sherlock had fal-

John cut off the thought and pushed back the covers angrily, quite aware that he was in denial. He did not care. It did not matter. Denial was better than the all consuming despair and terror he felt otherwise. One step in front of the other, push on. That was what he had to do now. Just like before, after he got back. Even if he did not really know why he was doing it. Irrelevant. He was pushing on. It’s what the soldier in him did.

John trudged his way to the shower, washed up, stripped the bed of its sheets (again; this was getting bad. He should probably invest in a few extra sets so that he wouldn’t have to do the washing so many times a week), and slumped his way downstairs to make his morning cup of tea and breakfast.

At least, he thinks that is what he did. He does not actually remember doing it, cannot seem to recall scrubbing his body free of the sweat, peeling the sticky hot sheets off the bed, or setting the kettle on the stove. But he is standing in the kitchen, his bed is stripped, the kettle is whistling, and he is dressed. And so that’s how the time goes for John Watson these days. Horrible gaps, black, blank spaces that seem to have no coherency or connection to the man himself. It is just as well; John is not sure he wants to be aware of much of anything anymore.

His cup is empty. He must have poured the tea and finished it. English Breakfast, he notes with mild disinterest and he tosses the used tea bag. He rolls his tongue around his mouth. There is the faint bitter remain of the tea, so yes he must have had some to drink. He supposes that is a good thing. Or not. He really isn’t sure anymore.

John is sitting in his chair. His hands lie in his lap, upturned. He is not sure how long he has been sitting like this, or even how he came to be sitting like this. He is mildly aware that his bladder is full, but the warning is not persistent yet, so he makes no move to alleviate himself. Not yet. He blinks a few times, realizes it is suddenly nighttime. Except, no, it was not sudden. He can recall watching the shadows creep across the floor, if he concentrates, and funny that whole stretches of his life now seem to be just black crevasses, large cracks filled with nothingness that he cannot name or feel or identify, and yet he can remember the shadows. There is probably some metaphor in that, he thinks, and then wonder if this was how Sherlock felt on those days where he sat motionless in one place for hours, hardly aware of the world outside. He was always so observant, so keen and attuned, though, there was no way he could not, on some level, be aware of time passing outside of his mind. No, more just that he deigned to acknowledge it. Like John just did. But the other gaps, the ones that were increasing in frequency, kind of like how his night terrors were increasing, those John was acutely not aware of. No matter how hard he tried, he could not fill the gaps. And the more the gaps occurred, the less he cared to fill them.

That is, until Sherlock returned, and then John wanted so desperately to fill the gaps because it was time he was sure was spent with Sherlock that he was missing on having. But even with the return of Sherlock, he could not fill the gaps.

It had distressed John, at first, when Sherlock reappeared, and when the gaps had continued. The first time Sherlock had reappeared had been just after a gap. John had found himself in the kitchen with the kettle in his hand. He had supposed that he had stripped the sheets off his bed (it was nearly a daily occurrence even then) and showered. How else would he be dressed in the kitchen? And if that did sound awfully familiar, well then it was probably because every day was like that for John. A giant blur; one ambiguous, heaping, flopping mess of nothing that bled together into night terrors, inane motions, and black gaps.

John had just turned away from putting the kettle on the stove when he froze; Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table with his microscope, twiddling the dial. His body was rigid, long, lean, so completely absorbed in the task. John had swallowed loudly, harshly. Blinked several times. Sherlock had sighed, spun the dial.

John, pale as a ghost, had been terrified to speak. So he didn’t. He turned, got a cup from the cupboard, and poured some tea. Sherlock was still fine tuning the microscope as John went to sit in the living room.

The next day, Sherlock was seated upon John’s chair, legs drawn up under him, his fingers steepled under his chin, as John came down the stairs. John had tripped on the last step. Sherlock had not looked up. Again too terrified to speak, John had continued into the kitchen to make tea.

This continued for several days, until nearly two weeks had passed by, until finally, John rounded the corner to find Sherlock talking to the skull and had had the courage to speak to Sherlock. “Morning,” he croaked out. His voice was rough, dry; it had been so long since he had used it.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, said nothing. John licked his lips. What should he do? What should he say? What could he say? Why did you do it? Why did you trick me? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me? Why did you leave me? John looked away as he thought the last. No. That would never do. No use in confessing something Sherlock would never hear. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that. He settled for, “Tea?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Lovely,” John had said and then had nodded around the thickness threatening to choke him. He turned to the kitchen. Next he knew, he was seated on the couch, one cup of tea in his hand, still luke-warm and half full, and another lying on the coffee table, cold and full.

It had distressed him at first, when Sherlock had reappeared and when the gaps continued to happen, but then, as with so much now, he just did not have the energy to sustain caring for long. Besides, it did not truly matter. He would take what time he could get with Sherlock, and the rest was just not important.


	2. Chapter 2

**_“That’s what people do, isn’t it?”_ **

**_“Leave a note?”_ **

**_“This is my note.”_ **

**_“Goodbye, John.”_ **

John gasps awake, rolling over quickly, dry heaving over the side of the bed. Sherlock is sitting up on the other side of his bed, reading an article in some obscure science magazine. He flicks his eyes over to John, slight concern etching his brow, but says nothing. John rolls back onto his back. That one had been particularly nasty. Flashes of lifeless eyes and bloody curls still play out over his eyes. He groans. He stuffs the heels of his hands into his eyes, if only to push away the ugly scenes. He does not want to see this today. He does not want to think about that loss.

“I bloody well should hate you,” John says to the man lying next to him. Sherlock shrugs a shoulder. He does not answer; he rarely answers. John has yet to figure out why. “I should,” John repeats, “I should. I want to, it would almost be easier, but I cannot bring myself to.” He pulls his hands away to look at Sherlock.

He startles, suddenly finding himself in his chair. He looks down at the cup of tea in his hand, notes the time on his watch, and tries to muster up an emotion to having lost the last four hours of his life. Sherlock is not there. The flat is quiet, stuffy, and John is all alone. He takes a sip of tea and grimaces. It is cold. He purses his lips, sighs, sets the tea aside. It is no good now, and he hasn’t the energy to make another cup. So he just sits and watches the shadows again as they creep and make their way across the flat floor.

That night, John gets ready for bed. He brushes his teeth, even flosses, and fills a glass with water and pops open a bottle of sleeping pills. His hand stops halfway to his mouth. He looks down at it. When did he start taking sleeping pills? His eyes dart back up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, watching him seriously.

“I don’t know,” he answers the unspoken question, as if Sherlock had asked him. He licks his lips and looks back down at his hand. He puts the pills in his mouth and swallows them dry. They are bitter on his tongue, and the taste is horribly familiar. His eyes lock with Sherlock’s in the mirror. “I don’t know,” he whispers, and the sound of his heartbroken voice barely echoes through the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**_“I don’t have friends.”_ **

_“Yeah, I wonder why.”_

**_“I’ve just got one.”_ **

**_“Goodbye, John.”_ **

John gasps awake, jerks to the side. He doesn’t have to push the sheets away; there are no sheets. He has long since quit sleeping with sheets. Keeping with the washing was too much of a hassle. He is shivering, goosebumps running up and down his body in waves. It’s the night terrors, he thinks, and the sweating. Brought on a chill.

He rolls off the mattress, groaning and miserable. He is down now to four hours of sleep, maximum if he can sustain it, which he usually can’t. So much for the sleeping pills. They were doing little to ease the turmoil in his mind. He should stop taking them, just throw them away.

John opens the door to find Sherlock on the other side, his hair rumpled from sleeping on the couch. He blinks blearily at John. John purses his lips and sighs. “Not right now, Sherlock,” he gruffs and shoulders past the taller man. He makes it to the bathroom (actually remembers it this time) and slips into the shower. The water splutters out of the faucet, hitting his body unevenly. It patters against his scar; it prickles. It’s the most John can remember actually feeling in days. It almost seems nice.

Then he is in the kitchen, but he is not making tea, because he already did that, and apparently breakfast also came and went, because there is a knife in his hand and he is bleeding. He is bleeding?

“Bollocks,” he grunts and drops the knife. Squeezes his finger to staunch the bleeding. It hurts but thankfully it’s not very deep. It should not need stitches. Which is lovely, because he is not in the mood to go to the hospital and explain how he almost chopped off his finger making biscuits with jam, mostly because he doesn’t know the answer to that question.

“Bloody…” he mutters and runs water over the cut. He watches his blood run down the drain, almost fascinated. It swirls around. Then Sherlock is there, leaning over him, watching the cut ebb and flow. He is almost as entranced as John. The side of his mouth quirks. John starts and realizes they are just watching his blood drip into the sink.

With a sigh, John shuts off the water and grabs the first aid kit. Some antiseptic and a bandage later, he is seated in his chair again, this time with a very much not-covered-in-blood biscuit that is covered in jam. He eats the biscuit slowly, watches the shadows move, and for a moment, for a brief moment, he almost believes he can taste the soft buttery biscuit and the sugar-sweet jam. He almost believes it was worth it to cut himself just to taste again.

And suddenly John feels very tired. Sherlock is watching him again, his eyes narrowed as if contemplating something serious, but John has nothing to offer him. He has already given Sherlock everything; there is nothing left of him to give. The shadows lengthen on the floor, grow deeper, grow darker. He thinks halfheartedly that there must be something poetic about it, about how the shadows bleeding along the floor reflect the life bleeding out of him. Slowly. Ebbing forward more and more each day, but always starting over with the dawn, never actually being fulfilled.

Blinking, John realizes night has settled. He hasn’t moved from his hair in over eight hours and his bladder is very unhappy with him. He groans and gets to his feet. Limps to the bathroom and makes it halfway back to his chair but freezes. He stares at his chair, sitting alone in the darkness.

“Sod this,” he says and turns to the door. “Sod it all.” He grabs his jacket and shrugs into it. He frowns as the material settles over his shoulders loosely, almost swallowing him. It has been weeks since he had put it on and it feels foreign on him. He limps out the door and down to the street. He starts walking with no intention of going anywhere.

He isn’t sure how or why or when he landed in a pub with a pint between his hands, but it is cold against his palms and frothing over the top. He sips it gently. The beer is bitter on his tongue. He eyes his table, notes that two other pints sit empty on it. It occurs to him he might be becoming drunk. He should probably worry about that, or be concerned, or something, but he can’t quite muster up the reason why.

The pub is loud and people are shouting and pushing and John hates it all. He hates the people around him who know nothing of his pain, who know nothing of the brilliant man who ruined John’s life. Who saved John’s life. John cannot stand their ignorance; he resents them their happiness. He clutches the pint tightly and watches as it spills over the edge. Spills and spills and falls, always falling down, down, until it lands, a horrible mess.

John is suddenly standing and he is surrounded by three men. They are saying something, but his head is too fuzzy to make out the words. There are phrases, little catches that worm their way through his skull:  _Christ. He’s completely buggered._ John tries to blink sweat out of his eyes. _He’s the one who threw a punch._ He realizes just now that his hand is throbbing. _Look at the poor bastard. In tears._ Tears are coursing down his face. _Leave off him. He’s not worth it._

No, John thinks to himself, I’m not. I’m worth anything anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

_“ **Afghanistan or Iraq?”**_

_“I’m sorry?”_

**_“Goodbye, John.”_ **

John jerks awake, gasping deeply. He is momentarily confused, unable to place his surroundings, though less from being unable to recognize them properly and more from the insistent pounding in his head. He groans and brings his hand up to his aching head.

“Bloody hell,” he groans again. He feels as if a train waylaid him. What on earth had he done the night before? He remembers sitting at home watching the shadows; he remembers his growing despair as the shadows lengthened. He furrows his brow, licks his lip. Blood, there is blood on his lip. He feels the trace remains of it in his mouth, old dried blood with its coppery tang. Sneaking his tongue out, he plays with the lower edge of his mouth. Nothing is wrong. The skin is smooth and unbroken. Just what had he done last night?

Ah yes. He had gone out to a pub for a change in pace, a change in scenery as it were. Not that it had helped, because now he was in the shower, but he very well did not remember making it under the hot spray of the water. He hisses slightly in pain as the water courses over his hand. He looks down and sees the knuckles of his left hand: they are bruised and caked with small amounts of blood. He groans and puts his head against the tile. It is cool against his forehead and offsets the throbbing in his head. His hand smarts now that he notices it. The pain is sharp and almost nice; it is the most he has felt in a long time.

John sighs. The water is cold. When had it gone cold? How long had he been in the shower? He shakes his head. The throbbing had lessened somewhat. He shuts off the water and gets out to towel off. He rubs his knuckles gently, marvels at the pain of making a fist. Sherlock has been strangely absent this morning, a point John now notices because the bathroom door is pushed open by none other than the man himself. His eyes glance down to John’s fist then flick back up. They are darkened with something, John thinks possibly disapproval.

John looks down at his hand, possibly sees what Sherlock must, a damaged hand, a broken man. He should feel remorse; he should feel regret. He should feel _something._ Instead, he feels nothing. He looks back up at Sherlock. His face is twisting with sadness. John’s face is eerily devoid of any emotion or of any response.

John slumps out of the bathroom to his room, sits on the bed. There is a glass on the nightstand, half full. He takes a sip of it and then lies back down. He is tired, so very tired. What little sleep he managed to snag because of the influence of alcohol was not enough. Sherlock slips into John’s room. He hesitates by the door, looking almost anguished. John says nothing. He just rolls to his side. After a moment, Sherlock sits on the bed next to him.

“I’m so tired, Sherlock,” he says. He breathes into the pillow. Sherlock looks down at him, scoffs. “I know,” John murmurs, shutting his eyes. “Us weary mortals and our need for sleep. So boring.”


	5. Chapter 5

_“I was so alone.”_

**_“Goodbye, John.”_ **

John opens his eyes. Sunlight is streaming through the window. Sherlock is nowhere in sight. Another night terror then. He rolls to his side and curls into a ball. God, he had barely got to sleep before it happened that time. Even in the daylight his world was plagued. He clutches the towel to him tightly, having not dressed before falling asleep after his shower. His body is shaking violently. Tears begin pooling in his eyes and then he is crying, sobs wracking his body, making his shaking worse. Alone and naked in his room, John Watson cries. He cries and cries until no more tears will flow and only dry heaves shake his thin frame. And then, John finds himself suddenly very still, suddenly very empty.

He gets up and pulls on a pair of pajama pants, then heads downstairs. No need to shower again. No point in it. He finds Sherlock standing by the window holding his violin. The bow is hanging from his hand. John has put the kettle on, poured some tea, and finished it before he realizes he is just standing watching Sherlock finger his violin delicately. It makes no sound.

Finally, John speaks the words he had been dreading. “You’re not really here, are you?” Sherlock shakes his head slightly, careful not to jostle the violin. John swallows. “You…you’ve never been here.” This isn’t a question, but Sherlock still shakes his head no. “I have been dreaming.” Again, not a question, but this time Sherlock nods. John closes his eyes in pain; suddenly he is drowning, emotion bubbling up from his churning stomach, squeezing around his heart and lungs, making breathing difficult. He cannot get enough air, he cannot think. Everything hurts.

Minutes, hours, days later, John opens his eyes. He is still suffocating, still miserable, and Sherlock is still standing with his violin, waiting for John. Except something is different; something has changed. John has moved. He was on the other side of the room when he shut his eyes. Another gap, who knows for how long it lasted or what he did during it. Certainly not make tea again.

“I don’t,” John’s voice cracks. He coughs and tries again. “I don’t want to wake up any more. I don’t want to wake up ever again.” John clenches his hand, feels something in the left one. He glances down. In it is his prescription for sleeping pills. The bottle is empty. He notices now too that there is a glass lying at his feet, turned on its side; a small splash of water has leaked onto the wooden floor. Sherlock is watching him carefully.

John lets out a shuttering breath. He lets go of the pill bottle. It falls to the floor, clatters at his feet. He takes a step, stumbles. He is suddenly quite dizzy. He makes it to the couch before he collapses. The room is spinning and once more he is drowning. Except, this time, he is not drowning in emotion and pain. Instead, he feels as if he is being sucked under, sucked into sleep. His breathing is slowing. “Sherlock,” he whispers. His eyes are drooping and his thoughts are getting heavy. He is no longer sure where he is or what is happening; he is not even sure he is aware of who he is. _Play for me_ , he wants to whisper, though he doesn’t know why, cannot remember who he is asking, or why it matters right now in this moment that he hears music. As his eyes shut, he sees a figure, a tall dark figure, take up a violin, and music fills his head, a steady even rhythm that pulses strongly at first, steady, steady, but then slows, decrescendo, decrescendo, and wanes, growing so very weak, before stuttering, stuttering gradually to a stop.


End file.
